


Bangkok Nights

by Grave



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Feels, M/M, probably too close to PWP territory, stupid criminals in love, yes basically PWP with some added Thailand Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-19 09:07:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1463656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grave/pseuds/Grave
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Singha beer tastes sweet and light, lures you in with its taste that holds no responsibility. Before you know it you’re drunk and loose and ready to make all the stupid irresponsible decisions of your life. That's mostly why Arthur drinks it. Because it leaves his mind a backdoor for excuses. So he drinks one and drinks two and smokes one cig and a second one.</p><p>... Arthur goes to Bangkok to search for Eames.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bangkok Nights

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, my dears, after being in the Inception Fandom from the very first day and being in this fandom ever since and it has been wonderful 4 years so far and and even more wonderful time on the Arthur/Eames ship.  
> I have been writing many fanfiction for those two and they will stay the one OTP over all OTPs for me, but I was always too self conscious to post them. After being to Thailand for the now 20th time, I thought what better way to celebrate this than with posting this little ficlet that I wrote two years ago in Thailand? Because it is so "old", I guess it will have a very "old school" Arthur/Eames feel to it and probably everyone who reads it will be like 'Well, that fic would have been good in 2010, but now???' Well, I DO WHAT I WANT. So I hope you enjoy :)
> 
> Only warning - English is not my first language. But I believe myself to be quite fluent in it.

Singha beer tastes sweet and light, lures you in with its taste that holds no responsibility. Before you know it you’re drunk and loose and ready to make all the stupid irresponsible decisions of your life. That's mostly why Arthur drinks it. Because it leaves his mind a backdoor for excuses. So he drinks one and drinks two and smokes one cig and a second one.

It also makes it easier to cope with the shitty hammering bass and the blinking neon lights all around. This is not Arthur's world. Arthur prefers order and form follows function with something sometimes catching your eyes to look at. He needs this kind of meticulous love for order and repeating patterns to keep his mind in narrow tracks. It helps him to think clear and straight. It is what makes him good at his job.

 

Bangkok is not his favourite city, Thailand is not his favourite country.

But of course Eames likes it. Of course he does, because he loves - if you could ever call anything Eames' taste - places that overflow with life and things to loose yourself in. He fits perfectly and enjoys being just another colourful particle in the wild cacophony of too bright sensations.

Eames drinks his maybe fifth glass of Mekong, and smokes his second pack of cigarettes and speaks fluent Thai with a soft British accent just to make the women giggle. Today is a night where Eames wants to be the centre of attention without leaving traces. Tomorrow the girls will think of the British man and just then realize that they never even asked for a name.

Here at the open bar in the centre of Bangkok’s sleaziest, most garish red light district Arthur finally found Eames two hours ago. By that time his beige Zegna shorts and white casual shirt were drenched to the bones, his hair a curly mess and his skin splattered with flour and baby powder. Eames managed to still look alluring in a whiteblue Hawaii shirt opened so far and so transparent, tattoos and chest hair clearly peeking out, that he could’ve just taken it off completely. The flour paste was fresh and wet in his beard and his grin was wide and bright when he saw Arthur. He waved him over as if he was just waiting for him to arrive all evening. He is as charming as to laugh at Arthur's appearance and grabs for the little bright green water pistol to shoot Arthur directly in the chest.

It is such a childish gesture that Arthur can't be mad at him and just flops down beside him on the sticky barstool. Conversations with Eames are bound to be long and Arthur knows that Eames is in the mood to be particularly annoying.

Arthur starts with: "I need you." but Eames interrupts him before he can finish the sentence or maybe Eames doesn't because Arthur is not so sure if the sentence isn't true enough and rounded up just on itself.

"For a job. Of course." Eames plays petty because he wants to and not because Arthur has said something truly offending. In the next breath he already laughs again at something the _katoey_ leaning at his right side whispered into his ear.

"Well, darling, sit down and drink with me to celebrate the New Year and maybe we can talk business later." Arthur knows that the signs are pointing towards not getting any business done tonight, but he sits down anyway.

"You're not even a Buddhist, Eames."

"Does it matter?"

Probably it doesn't. With Eames not many things and boundaries matter. Before Arthur can protest there is a beer placed in front of his nose in a dirty blue cooler.

From all places it was clear that Eames would be here, not in his hotel, not in a nice and quiet restaurant at the Khlongs or god forbid in a fancy one in one of the giant shopping malls. He's here because he believes that the "social outcast" ('What a horrible name!' 'What would you call the scum you like to hang out with then?' 'Darling, you know I don't like labels.') are more fun to hang out with. Because they don't care about any social boundaries and speak their mind and have the most interesting stories to tell. Not that Eames despises sitting in a perfectly normal cafe with ordinary people around him. There probably doesn’t exist a situation where Eames couldn’t enjoy himself.

At least the forger is not on a job right now. Arthur did his research before making a short detour from Singapore to Bangkok. He wonders why Eames takes all the trouble in the airport quite so willingly. Every immigrant is photographed at the passport check and the connections between Thailand and Europe are tightly bound. Most of the time 5000 Baht will do the job and secure a picture-less immigration. Arthur pays them, not because he is searched - you are only the best when you're face is not known in the database of almost every special unit of the world, Arthur is careful to be in the favour of powerful people and else unknown - but it's nice to stay faceless. Eames has to pay them because he had been (and mostly still is) a careless arrogant twat with a cocky mouth.

"Why are you coming? It's mostly Cobb who comes asking nicely in person. Not you. You are too fond of e-mails and short impolite text messages."

"I had a job in Singapore."

"Singapore is nice. Though I had to spent a night in prison for a cig thrown on the ground. Can imagine you like the city."

"We worked a job together once." And managed to not get caught fucking in a street corner at 3am. Somehow he already sees them both ending again in a street corner. The only difference would be the dirt and stink here. It's in the way Eames angles his body away from the quite pretty whore and katoey next to him - he would probably have taken them with him to his ratty hotel room - in Arthur's direction. Or maybe it's more in the way Arthur cannot help but look at Eames' plush lips while he downs half of his cool beer bottle or how he would really like to lean over and lick away the flour. Maybe it's mostly him and how he hasn't seen Eames for almost one year since the Fischer job. One whole year, where Eames was too busy jetting like a maniac across the world and pulling mostly real life heists. Arthur had been to busy helping Cobb to settle with his kids, trolling with Ariadne through the boutiques in Paris after they got some awkwardness worked out ("How unfair. You are insanely attractive and it feels like making out with my brother!" and Arthur, not very offended, thought, "It feels like the wrong person.”), spending his earned money on new designer collections and working some jobs in between, never crossing ways with Eames, when there would be occasions when they would meet within one month three times in three different countries by accident.

But it has been strange after Inception, after the nagging – for the lack of better word - fear of Eames being on the most dangerous layer under him on a high security military fortress with a girl, a maniac, a half dead and a rich manchild. They had to part fast, not communicating according to rules for two month and then his mobile rang and Ariadne forced him to come over to Paris. She reminded him in many ways, with her bossy affection, of Mal and she had the same talent to keep his mind distracted.

Still he would sit in his rented apartment with the Eiffel Tower in blinking distance, and track Eames, following on his laptop from Melbourne to Moscow to Manhattan.

Maybe Arthur had wanted to see him. Maybe he had missed Eames. He was not really sure about that anymore. Before he knows Eames' hand settles between his shoulder blades, over the cold clingy material of his shirt.

Over the evening, over beer and Thai whiskey and Eames showing Arthur his newest weapon (a beautiful butterfly knife - Eames could be a romantic about heavy armour as well as the dirty classics of his past in London’s streets) Arthur tried to address the topic of a job, a job he needs a reliable forger and extractor in one, because the job is excellent but the real extractor hiring is an acquaintance but a fool, and Eames has both fields covered (or Arthur is just again, fooling himself. Maybe there is not really a job.) But Eames is cringing, slithering, dancing his way from the conversations, dragging Arthur towards other topics - Philippa and James, US politics, the fashion week, his newest go at mastering a Baroque painting, going to Thailand to learn wood carving.

Arthur knows that this will end bad, it’s in Eames’ speech, his body language, his topics - from the way he concentrates completely on Arthur to the way he leans in and let's his stubble scratch over Arthur's cheek.

It's one of those nights where the only human part of Arthur burns with desire and the rational part boils with hatred. Eames doesn't want to be pinned down. Not friend, not lover, not stranger, not enemy. He switches his styles and roles so fast that Arthur can figure that Eames probably spent a lot of time forging during the last year after all. There are many frayed edges hanging loose, Eames being hyperaware of all the possibilities he can fill himself out with.

Arthur reproaches Eames for loving scumbags and trash.

Arthur loves madmen on the other hand so they are even.

So he takes the fourth beer offered and feels his head spin and his body curl slowly to the fitting angles and nooks of Eames' body.

It is just like that with them and before he knows there he is: sinking his teeth in a full bottom lip while another canister of water is splashed all over him. And he doesn't even care that his eyes burn from the baby powder flour mix running out of his hair, because he can make Eames out blindly with his body fitted so perfectly against a strong chest - he has been working out, probably started Muang Thai again in the month he has been here and a hot thrill went through his body as he realized that his finger could barely span halfway across Eames' biceps. One of Eames' hands sneaks down and dips in the loose back of Arthur's trousers, unashamedly dragging his middle finger between Arthur's arse cheeks and pressing over his opening. He smiles a crooked teeth smile like the Cheshire cat itself at how loose Arthur is for him. Shame has not any room left in what they have.

"I want you to fuck me, but you're not doing it in front of a bunch of prostitutes and perverts.", Arthur breathes out with shaking voice and sighs in regret when Eames takes his hands off him.

Sex tourists whistle obscenely at them and Eames lifts Arthur from the barstool before they part barely ruffled.

They take a Tuk Tuk until the streets get too narrow, Eames pays the driver some crumpled Bath. The street is bursting at its seams. Bars/restaurants/bordellos, hand crafted soap, art studios, fake watches and other electronics, clothes en mass, mopeds rattling. High squealing laughter, water splashing everywhere, a sweet girl coming to Arthur with a blue bowl in her hands wishing him “Happy Songkran” and smearing his face with more flour powder paste. It’s a strangely sweet gesture in all this mess and she reminds him of Philippa though there is no resemblance at all. All the time he can feel Eames’ hand on his hip, pushing him along and this would be in every other situation extremely annoying – as if Arthur could get lost, as if he needed Eames to guide him, as if the young men in the overpriced pants would run away – but right now it’s okay for no reason at all.

They stop for a second at a cook shop and Eames buys Gaprao Moo Kai Daao in a plastic back and three mangos. The lady behind the wok seems to know him already and gives him some extra watermelon. It’s in those small gestures that make you realize how brilliant Eames is in everything he does and Arthur falls for nothing less than brilliance.

It’s another fifteen minutes until they reach their destination, meanwhile eating the spicy pork with plastic forks out of the bag until Arthur’s eyes water from the chili and the sweet basil. He has no idea how Eames can eat that without even blinking.

Finally arriving they are again dripping wet to the bones and Eames is laughing delighted like a little child while he brushes Arthur's curling hair out of his face.

"You missed me, darling.", Eames grinned and pushed the door open he hadn’t bothered to lock before going out tonight. It is a shitty apartment with one room, a mattress, a TV, a fan, a kitchen counter, Eames' laptop and drawing stuff scattered, and a tiny sad excuse of a bathroom. Arthur has on the other hand an expensive room in the Siam@Siam and he would regret not going back there, if _this_ was not something he loved too much - Eames messing him up and throwing him down on a dirty damp mattress.

Eames strips out of his shirt and the flip-flops and shorts as soon as the door closes behind him and of course he didn't bother to wear anything underneath. Only the known patterns of his tattoos span across his tanned skin. Now the clearly more defined muscles are plainly visible. Arthur's eyes wander immediately to Eames’ hand wrapped around his half hard cock, while he strolls without any hurry closer to Arthur until he is standing before him with mirth in his grey eyes. The gesture is so completely lewd, so completely raw and feral, without a hint of false shame or insecurity. This was Eames who could read people like books and who can see the obvious prickling lust in Arthur.

There are no real formalities between them. As difficult and frustrating it can often be between them, sometimes they just click so simple. Sometimes just everything falls into a perfect place.

Maybe he is not here for a job.

Maybe he is here for _Eames_.

Eames doesn't take his hand off himself, when Arthur kneels before him and sucks without any hesitation on the dark red head, taking in Eames well-known musky taste and scent. He licks his way between Eames' fingers, coaxing them slowly away until he can take Eames all in.

The feeling of Eames' heavy cock on his tongue makes him more drunk than any Singha could ever do. He knows how to take him all in until his nose brushes Eames' pubic hair and feels him hit the back of his throat and moans in unisono with Eames' deep groan. He is not as good as Eames at this but he tries to make it up with eagerness. Arthur just doesn't do blowjobs for everyone, when he thinks back he didn't give one for a year. For Eames he does it willingly and gets painstakingly hard with every appreciating stroke and every thrust forward while his hands scramble over Eames big thighs he loves to feel between his legs or wrapped around his hips.

Spit and precome trickle down Arthur's chin, over Eames's balls and all the while Arthur looks up with hollowed cheeks not breaking contact with the mischievous grey eyes. The smirk on his face is dirty and has some joke in it Arthur is not getting and it stays on place on those plump mouth even when Eames is biting down on his bottom lip and hums with satisfaction, pushes his hips forward to get his cock deeper in Arthur’s mouth without choking him.

“Oh, darling, look at you.”, he hums and Arthur swallows hard when Eames nudges his still clothed crotch with his left food, pressing against the hard erection straining against his slacks.

“You’re getting off on this. You really must have missed me.”

The laugh has a cruel edge to it, but mostly it’s self confident and lazy and tinged with clear lust.

“Fuck you.” Arthur says and still he knows it’s true. Only Eames’ earthy, musky smell is enough to make him go cross eyed with lust and need and he wants to rub against Eames’ foot like a dog in heat. This is a night where he doesn’t know if Eames is interested in getting him off and where Arthur wouldn’t mind. He can taste first drops of Eames cum on his tongue and sweat is running down in rivers between his shoulder blades.

“No, love, fuck _you_.” His accent is heavy and curls not only around every vowel but also around every of Arthur’s nerves. _Fuck_ never sounded so better than coming from this mouth. And this is a promise. Made in a shady flat with the loud buzz of Bangkok outside and TVs blaring with loud Asian soaps from next door.

The next gesture is gently at odds with the pace of the whole evening. Arthur wants to ask how many people Eames had forged in the last month. He wants to know if Eames had missed him too. But mostly he just wants Eames to fuck him.

Arthur sucks automatically on the thick thumb as soon as Eames had pushed his head back and stroked almost reverently over Arthur’s swollen, red lips. Even in the non-existent light in the room he saw how Eames’ pupils deleted and the groan he let out was truly predatory.

The next thing he knows it that Eames grabs for his arm and throws him over, strips him off his clothes, pushes him around as if Arthur was just a ragdoll, no weight at all, until he is on all fours on the mattress on the floor. The sheets stick to his skin and his knees have the pattern of the wooden floor in angry red marks. The sheets smelled like they weren’t cleaned for at least one week, they were so completely tinged in Eames that Arthur almost buried his face in them and breathed it in. His own pillow in New York had lost Eames’ scent a long while ago and just remained to smell like sharp straightener and the nothingness of Arthur himself.

He waits for something to happen, waits for Eames’ weight to shift on the mattress behind him and he thinks that Eames may just push in without any preparation and Arthur wouldn’t mind for just one second. But Eames seems to be in no hurry at all, stands there still for a while in all his glory, hard and naked and outlined by the flipping lights through the stained windows, impossibly bulked up and Arthur shudders with it, feels the knot in the stomach that _wants, wants, wants_. Every piece of that man. Everything he can get, every of his too many facets even the ugly ones.

He wonders if Eames will just hold him down and fuck him like a bitch and he thinks of the man, lazily slouching in chairs hidden behind floral shirts and silk trousers who says ‘Please, be a darling.’ and trembles with it all.

“I heard you would be coming.” Eames says and grabs for a half empty bottle of whisky lying besides the mattress, screwing of the cap and taking a big sip before sinking on his knees behind Arthur. “And I know you were following me. It took you long, darling.” Without any hesitance Eames strokes with his fat thumb down Arthur’s spine, farther down between his arse cheeks to his balls, teasing the soft skin until Arthur cannot help but spread his legs a little bit wider.

“Eames.”, he breathes without meaning anything, ignoring the spin in his head.

“I would ask you what you want but there is no way to ever get a straight answer out of you.”

“Eames!” Arthur keens when Eames pushes against the hard muscles of his entrance, dipping the tip of his thumb in, dry and painful and just right.

Behind the wall a crowd is cheering, clapping enthusiastically, a wild waterfall of over exited gibberish that makes no sense to Arthur. Maybe someone won something, maybe someone made a fool of themselves.

“Do shut up, darling.” The bottle of whiskey glugs once more, before Eames puts it aside and now takes both hands to kneed Arthur’s arse, push the cheeks separate and leans down. The instant moan ripping out of Arthur’s throat almost chokes him and he has to push one hand against the wall to not fall forward and away from the hot, wet tongue licking over his hole in bold laps.

In all matters concerning his mouth Eames is a natural talent, from lying to eating your ass out, Arthur can only imagine how happy every woman, every man, could be to enjoy it one day. The mere thought of it makes Arthur sick and hot at the same time and he pushes back on Eames’ tongue until he gets an impatient slap on his arse.

It ought to be punishment but all it does is make his cock ache.

 

“Oh, fuck, Arthur, look at you. Flying all across the world just to get in my bed acting like a bloody slut.” Arthur whimpers when Eames presses on finger in him alongside with his tongue, spreading him open with care but without any finesse just fingering him open. Somewhere besides the whiskey bottle Eames must have kept the lube. One finger, two fingers, three fingers, scissoring him. Senseless swears drop out of Arthur’s mouth mixing with _Eames_ and _Oh God_ and _More More More_.

His pride tells him in the back of his mind that he ought to protest now. But when it comes to Eames pride is so far away from being of any use that it doesn’t matter. Eames saw him at his worst and at his best and can see right through any barrier Arthur tries to put up with him.

Far louder is the voice that is screaming that he missed Eames like you miss a cut off limb. Far more insistent is the voice that just wants Eames to lift him in his arms and fuck him against the wall until he doesn’t know anymore where anyone could possibly separate them.

Least of all his pride.

Eames moans darkly and strokes over his prostate and Arthur nearly screams “Please, Eames, please.” He reaches out blindly to get some part of Eames under his fingers, his hair, his hand, his skin, just something and he catches the soft blond strands. A stupid sense of relieve fills him when he touches the well known texture. He is already close to the end, overwhelmed by the sensation of Eames’ mouth on him and in general _Eames_ but it is not enough. There is something missing. Something vital.

“Please what? Please stop? Please go away? Please leave me alone? Please just come and let me fuck you whenever I have time between playing the fucking stoic hero?” Eames’s voice is like a hard knife slicing up his spine but it breaks with exertion.

 

No. That’s not it, that is really not it.

“Please fuck me, please, God, Eames, please fuck me!”, splutters out of him before he can stop it. And it’s not what he wants to say. Not really at least. Eames’ words are cruel and his hearts screams with it and he doesn’t want to hear it although it may have been at one point the truth. What he wants to say is _Stay_ and _Never leave_ _me alone_ and _You fool, you stupid arrogant fool_.

At least it seems good enough for Eames, because he pulls out his finger with a bemused snort and comes closer until there is the thick head of his cock pressing against Arthur’s entrance. At first Arthur shivers with excitement, everything feels to tight right now and he needs the realise, needs the blunt carnal pleasure of it - and then -

Suddenly that is not enough, suddenly this just won’t do because there is a sudden sentimental streak in him that wants to see Eames’ face and needs to know if it is as impassive and hurt as his voice sounds.  So he scrambles, probably looking like a damn fool, his legs and arms feeling like pudding and he will come anyway the second Eames fills him up.

“ _Darling._ ” Eames sounds mildly stunned – or unnerved, Arthur isn’t so sure – but his strong arms are immediately there (of course, _of course_ ), pulling Arthur into his arms and onto his lap, his hands almost gliding off from his sweat slick back but being there, impossibly powerful, pressing Arthur against the wall. Holding him like he is _nothing_.

Missing any preamble Eames is in him with a deep thrust, balls deep. Easy with sweat and spit and lube and eagerness. It feels so fucking good that Arthur hits his head back against the wall and cries out with it. For a few seconds they are completely still, not just Arthur but also Eames. The only sound in the room is the soft surr of the ventilator and the fridge, and both of their heavy breathings mingling into one.

He looks Eames in the eyes, his face shining and his pupils blown but completely focused on Arthur, his mouth red and ripe. There is still flour sticking to his face and his beard left burning marks on Arthur’s ass and he is dirty and reeks of alcohol but it is just exactly right like that.

“Look at you.” Eames whispers as if it was a secret no one was allowed to know. Arthur can only imagine that he looked just as wrecked, like a complete total mess and like an entirely different human being from his put together self in sleek suits.

Then Eames starts to pick up a merciless but earnest rhythm with his hips, driving with every thrust Arthur against the wall and Arthur is _gone_.

He went on a plane to Singapore because he had a connecting flight to Bangkok. He went on the plane with an offer and it was never really a job offer.

The next sounds get all swallowed by Eames’ mouth on his, kissing him with so much- so much- _so much_. Everything in Arthur’s head is filled up with this stupid man and he scratches over the broad back, clawing over the tattoos like he could drag Eames back together like this. Together and towards him. They never stop kissing long enough to take in a breathe just keep going at it as if tomorrow it’s out of fashion, as if they have to make up for a lot. _Which they do_.

Eames’ hands are large on his body, touching everywhere while holding him up without any effort, while Arthur cannot do much but role his hips in the same pace. All his senses are a tumbling mess in his brain and the only point of focus being Eames’ lips and Arthur’s fingernails scratching his back bloody.

 

Arthur’s travel took more than one year and a flight to Bangkok.

“I missed you.” Arthur gasps against Eames’ mouth and the tanned arms hold him stronger, pressing the last bit of air of his lungs. There are other three word sentences that start with _I_ and _you_ that Arthur has on his mind but this seems the most important of them all.

When he looks in the grey eyes of the other, Eames breathes _Arthur_ and comes meltingly hot buried deep in him. The sensation of that, Eames’ hot cum, them welded together like that is enough to push him over the brink and shake him with an orgasm that hurts in all the right places, trapped between the wall and Eames.

 

 

 

 

“So I have a job offer.” Arthur says, lazily curled up against Eames’ side, his head pillowed with a heartbeat in his ear. When a cigarette is hold before his lips he tags a drag and blows it out in the stifling air. His fingers follow lazily the contours of the die tattoo on Eames’ chest.

Eames fingers are in the meantime occupied with stroking his hair. “So you have a job offer.”, he repeats but it is a sign that he is listening.

“It is not that spectacular, just a little extraction on a politician who hides dirty tête-á-tête and some funding secret. The extractor is Anderson and I need a reliable forger and a babysitter extractor. The job is in London.”

Eames says nothing to that but starts massaging Arthur’s scalp while humming some melody that could be a cheesy song by The Beatles. The silence is heavy in the room but Arthur is too tired to care about that.

 

 

 

“Come home.” Arthur murmurs in Eames’ skin long after the other put out the cigarette on the floor, in an ashtray or somewhere else.

The way Eames presses a kiss to his forehead and a thumb in the dimple on his cheek his answer enough.

 


End file.
